Every revolt, open or concealed, has its banner.  The banner of the marauders, the drunkards, the idlers, the sluggards of the valley des Aigues was the terrible tavern of the Grand-I-Vert.  Its frequenters found amusement there,—­as rare and much-desired a thing in the country as in a city.  Moreover, there was no other inn along the country-road for over twelve miles, a distance which conveyances (even when laden) could easily do in three hours; so that those who went from Conches to Ville-aux-Fayes always stopped at the Grand-I-Vert, if only to refresh themselves.  The miller of Les Aigues, who was also assistant-mayor, and his men came there.  The grooms and valets of the general were not averse to Tonsard’s wine, rendered attractive by Tonsard’s daughters; so the Grand-I-Vert held subterraneous communication with the chateau through the servants, and knew immediately everything that they knew.  It is impossible either by benefits or through their own self-interests, to break up the perpetual understanding that exists between the servants of a household and the people from whom they come.  Domestic service is of the masses, and to the masses it will ever remain attached.  This fatal comradeship explains the reticence of the last words of Charles the groom, as he and Blondet reached the portico of the chateau.

CHAPTER IV

Anotheridyll

“Ha! by my pipe, papa!” exclaimed Tonsard, seeing his father-in-law as the old man entered and supposing him in quest of food, “your stomach is lively this morning!  We haven’t anything to give you.  How about that rope,—­the rope, you know, you were to make for us?  It is amazing how much you make over night and how little there is made in the morning!  You ought long ago to have twisted the one that is to twist you out of existence; you are getting too costly for us.”

The wit of a peasant or laborer is very Attic; it consists in speaking out his mind and giving it a grotesque expression.  We find the same thing in a drawing-room.  Delicacy of wit takes the place of picturesque vulgarity, and that is really all the difference there is.

“That’s enough for the father-in-law!” said the old man.  “Talk business; I want a bottle of the best.”

So saying, Fourchon rapped a five-franc piece that gleamed in his hand on the old table at which he was seated,—­which, with its coating of grease, its scorched black marks, its wine stains, and its gashes, was singular to behold.  At the sound of coin Marie Tonsard, as trig as a sloop about to start on a cruise, glanced at her grandfather with a covetous look that shot from her eyes like a spark.  La Tonsard came out of her bedroom, attracted by the music of metal.

“You are always rough to my poor father,” she said to her husband, “and yet he has earned a deal of money this year; God grant he came by it honestly.  Let me see that,” she added, springing at the coin and snatching it from Fourchon’s fingers.